


WendyNerd's Jonsa Smut Week

by WendyNerd



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Jonsa Smut Week, JonsaSmutWeek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-02-07 21:10:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12849591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WendyNerd/pseuds/WendyNerd
Summary: Submissions for Jonsa Smut Week.Chapter One: Teasing/Trying something new: Performance (Western AU)





	WendyNerd's Jonsa Smut Week

Jon’s witnessed Sansa’s show at least a hundred times by now, used his fists during a few as well. The life of a “bodyguard”. Never his Colt 45’s, of course. He’s a bounty hunter, not an outlaw, and he can’t scare off her audience, especially if they’re ever going to draw out their mark. But it’s always good to keep them visible enough so lads remember to behave, keep their hands to themselves. Sometimes, someone had just one too many and forgot this little rule, and Jon had to step in.

Well, punch in, really. Sansa was sometimes the one who “stepped in”, quite literally. She has a total of seven costumes, and each one comes with a matching pair of steel stiletto heels that Mya sharpens regularly. The first time he saw them in action was in Harroway’s Tower, Arizona. A fresh young soldier boy took a twirl about the neck of her boa as an invitation to grab her by the waist and yank her into his lap. He had a pair of heavy duty, brand new army issue boots, built to withstand the worst of the desert. Sansa shoved it right through the top of his boot. The soldier went red faced and rigid, and when she pulled her heel out, a bit of blood leaked out of the hole. She’s used the giant pins for her head dresses too.

Granted, there’s only so much footwear and hat pins can do if you’re in the really rough sort of place where the other patrons will join in harassing a lady. Sansa’s got sharp accessories and an even sharper mind, but Jon was a State Trooper, an army captain, and was personally taught to box by Jeor “The Old Bear” Mormont. As a bounty hunter especially, he’s built up a reputation for himself, and he always makes a point of being seen entering a town with Ghost by his side. He’s as known for being a tough customer as Sansa is for her show, and he’s got the training and the muscles to back it up.

He’s on edge tonight. Not because the crowd is unsavory — she’s playing the San Francisco Stage Port tonight, a proper, city, high-end establishment with a real stage, paneled walls, a full band, and all the patrons are expected to don their Sunday best. Her biggest show yet. The sort of venue that would never host a show like hers back East. Thank God for the West Coast, where the heat, open air, and less rigid society made everyone a little more… permissive.

The sort of place folks go to dine, even the wives come along and enjoy the show, laughing and playfully swatting at their husbands for drinking in the performers, pretending not to admire the ostrich feather fans. The audience watches from candle-lit tables with white linen cloths or from a lacquered paneled bar at the back. Sansa has a real dressing room and doesn’t have to change in a coach or tent behind the building, Mya has broken out the scenery for the stage, while Myranda got to distribute the sheet music to the band.

Jon’s on edge tonight for a pretty stupid reason — it’s his birthday, and no one has said a word. It’s nonsense, really. He’s thirty-three years old and his last eight birthdays have gone uncelebrated. Bounty hunting isn’t the sort of trade that often lets a man settle down long enough for any sort of occasion, let alone keep track of the date. Five times in the past eight years he’s gone his birthday not even realizing the date passed until he stopped over into a town with a well-watched calendar a week later.

He doesn’t even know when Myranda or Mya’s birthdays are. For all he knows, theirs have passed uncelebrated since he joined them. Maybe it’s just not the girls’ way these days.

But it’s a pity, if so. Jon remembers growing up with Sansa at Winterfell Estate, the cakes and parties they’d had whenever someone gained another year. Sansa always made a fuss. She loved planning parties, like the perfect debutante-to-be she was. Growing up, Jon would sometimes get mocked by the boys at school for being the bastard son of a ruined woman, not having a father and carrying his ruined Mother’s name. But it was his birthdays that gave him the strength to brush that sort of thing off, because Stark birthdays proved over and over that he had a proper family, no matter what anyone said.

Of course, that’s ancient history now, isn’t it? That was back before the family was ruined, before Mr. and Mrs. Stark, Mama, Robb, and Rickon were lost. Before Jon’s no-good Father burst into his life and tried to drag him off to be a proper Targaryen heir. Before the army. Before Littlefinger. Jon looks back on those days with fondness, but maybe for Sansa, it’s just pain she feels. Jon left the Stark house and became a railroad heir and ran off by choice, master of his own fate. Sansa? She lost everything, ended up in the house of her mad aunt and her new, crooked, foul husband who trapped Sansa, hid her away, and made her into Alayne Stone, his bordello star. Her journey here was less “make my own way” and more “escape.”

So he hasn’t said a word. If it hurts her to relive those springtime picnics with the steamers hanging from the branches of the weirwood and those pretty cakes Mrs. Mordane used to bake, he’s not going to prompt it.

It’s just that… There’s so much they’ve shared, and so much that has gone unspoken. The way they sometimes act, you’d think they’d met the very day Jon joined her tour.

While he has no interest in a party, or cake, or gifts, or any sort of fuss, a mention might have been nice. Just to know she remembered.

But then, she’s been preoccupied, of course. They’ve had some leads tracking down Baelish, and this is a major gig. It’s the opening night of her week-long engagement here.

So Jon says nothing. He keeps his post near the corner of where the grandstand and the audience area meets, and he keeps to himself as the girls fuss over the show. There are to be spotlights, and Mya’s designed all new background screens and arranged for special props and furniture. Sansa’s been rehearsing since ten o’clock this morning, though not all of it on the stage. Myranda has been adamant that Jon keep his distance so preparation goes swimmingly. “You make the musicians nervous.”

They should be nervous, Jon thinks. He’s witnessed a few rehearsals and seen how some of those players ogled his girl. One trumpet player broke tempo to wolf-whistle, earning him a look from Jon that made him try to huddle under his starched collar, like a turtle withdrawing into its shell.

Jon likes Sansa’s show on its own. Indeed, on its own, he likes it far more than any gentleman should. Her proper lady’s education included music and poetry, and Sansa always sang like a bird and wrote dainty little verses when she was small. As a future high society wife, it would be her duty to charm suitors and entertain her husband’s guests. She definitely entertains now, still sings, and writes verses, though the way she’s employed those skills are hardly what her mother had in mind. Sansa’s always been good with words, and that extends to making clean words sound as risky as anything with four letters. She and Myranda hammer out the tunes on local saloon pianos or, when on the road, on guitar and harmonica, during the off hours. They’re nice, catchy, flirty little ditties, but clever enough to be classy. You kept an even enough tone and didn’t belt the lyrics too loud, you could get away with singing a Sansa Stark tune in public without blushing.

Mya has a real talent with tools, too, honed from years of driving wagons, carts, and carriages cross-country. She and Sansa are real artists (A proper Lady’s education also included charcoal sketching, pen drawing, water colors and oil paints), and make some nifty foldable screens. Sansa and Myranda made pretty clothes and drapes and such and with a few pieces of borrowed furniture, the girls regularly turned piss-and-whiskey-soaked saloon platforms into palace boudoirs and fairy forests.

And, of course, there is the dancing and the costumes. The girls spent a year cleaning houses, working textile mills, delivering goods, and teaching pioneers their letters to save up and spend it all on Sansa’s first costume and proper horses and carriage so they could transport the clothes as carefully and securely as possible. All of Sansa’s things, as her show wardrobe expanded, have been stored in carefully padlocked, silk-lined cases with tissue paper wrapped around the garments. A few pieces even had to go in boxes with air holes in them, like they were puppies or bunny rabbits. Everything Sansa wore on stage always required a lot of fuss, but not always a lot of actual fabric.

Sansa wasn’t the sort of performer to show her bare backside to the audience, but more than one of her costumes allowed her fans to know the exact shape of it. Jon still isn’t sure what witchcraft the girls use that keeps her bosoms contained within her bodice just enough to keep her nipples from making their public debut. Especially given how she moves, shaking, leaning over, stretching, leaning…

As a girl, Sansa begged her mother to let her learn ballet. Catelyn had reservations, viewing it as rather risque and unladylike, but then Sansa went to her father with her quivering pout and big blue eyes, and so she got four years of instruction. She isn’t just one of those bordello, rough-trade so-called tavern wenches who just shook their fringe and thrust their chests over into a patron’s face. Sansa definitely did some shaking and bending and teasing, but she was graceful, tasteful. Sin personified, sure, but the sort of sexy nymph that did more than make a drunk fool hoot and tent his trousers. The sort that the ladies enjoyed just as much, stylish and fine enough to make the women see a glamorized reflection, a risky inspiration, and feminine standards that matched their own instead of a threat or pathetic attention-seeker.

It did help that she isn’t technically a full burlesque performer. Sure, she wasn’t above feather fans and boas, but she never wore less than her stocking, bloomers, and corsets and garters. She did have one number that involved the removal of garments, but it was her play-acting a sort of scene that was more “melodically preparing for cotillion” than “peep show.” The bits where she removed garments consisted of her dropping a robe behind a semi-translucent dress screen, and she ended the bit in a gown, technically in more clothing than she started the number in. And she didn’t just dance and sing, she told jokes, proper jokes, good ones, not just the odd suggestive comment.

Still sexy beyond belief, though. And she knew how to shake as well she knew how to arabesque.

Jon bloody loves Sansa’s show, really.

Except for the part where it’s a show with an audience. The show would be perfect without an audience.

Sure, there’s sometimes a strange surge of pride Jon feels when Sansa first comes out on stage and the jaws start to drop. It gives him a bit of a thrill to know she’s so admired, because she’s his. He has the woman every man in the room wants. They can only stare.

But after a couple seconds, the thrill drops. And it’s more like he’s surrounded by threats, men who would probably kill to have her. He fears for her, surrounded by so many strangers aching to touch, hold, and do unspeakable things to her. No one touches Sansa. Except Mya, Myranda, and him, and that’s only because she says so. She’s already had far, far too much experience with the unwanted grasps of men. And it’s hardly lost on him that it was the worst of them that started her at this career.

There are too many men in this world who refuse to accept that a smile, a friendly word, a bat of the eyelashes, or a skimpy costume onstage was license for them to take whatever they wish.

Even with the more genteel folks, like the “gentlemen” she’d be entertaining tonight, the sort who knew better than to lay a hand on her, Jon didn’t like them, either. They didn’t care about Sansa, they didn’t love her. They loved flesh, giggles, silk corsetry, a woman being there to please them and nothing more. They love a fantasy. They grin at the high-pitched, childlike giggles she gives off when she glances over her shoulder. They have no idea that when something is actually funny to her, she either throws her head back to release a full, round laugh, or makes a small, hard-edged little snicker. They probably wouldn’t care to hear those. They wanted a woman who made girlish giggles and beckoning eyes at them as if they’d done something witty without actually having to be witty. They want to see her move only in a way designed to please them. She might as well be a prized thoroughbred or one of those talking birds. They know nothing of her, have no thoughts of her beyond the carnal, no interest. Most of these “fine gentlemen” would probably sneak off to the local brothel at some point this week to patronize the redheads. Hell, there’d likely be at least a couple “invitations” from some especially rich, married gentlemen seeking to make her into a conquest and/or mistress.

Jon could watch Sansa perform all day and night, if not for all the strangers watching with him.

And it’s not like that initial bolt of pride lasted long. A far as anyone and everyone knows, he’s her bodyguard. Unattached fellows who see her show are often happy (if nervous) to send her messages, flowers, invitations, and such. Some outright proposition her. There are the ones who considered themselves romantic gentlemen, the ones who, after a single show, come to her lodgings with their hair combed back and flowers clutched to their chest, fall to one knee and ask her to flee her hard, fast-paced, tawdry life to be their bride. Sure, all they know of her is seeing her sway her hips in a satin corset for an hour onstage, but they tell themselves they’re in love, that she’ll fall to their feet because they mentioned a church and surely she wants to give up her whole life to be the Mrs. of a man she just met. Everyone who watches her sees her as for the taking to some degree.

Jon just wants these fools to stop thinking they can have her. Not just because they’re together. Even if they weren’t, even if he saw her as a sister the way he still sees Arya. But because she’s not to be taken, or had. No could have her. They could only be chosen by her. And these men did not understand that. They thought to possess her, if only for an hour or so. Like she’s a thing.

Sansa’s not a thing. Jon doesn’t possess her. She’s chosen him. And it’s a grand thing. Jon wishes they knew that. Because often, the only thing that will keep a man from thinking he can have a lady is if she already “belongs” to another man. Sure, Sansa doesn’t belong to him, but he is her fellow, and if some of these louts knew that, they’d set some true boundaries. There’d be no “dinner invitations” and unsolicited parcels of chocolate or jewelry that were really just intended unofficial payments for a “private show” she’s never offered. Not if they knew the ManHunter with the Wolf was her beau.

There’s some selfishness to it, too. Sansa pours so much of herself into her show. It’s her life. It’s her art. Her livelihood. It’s the thing Littlefinger pushed her into to try and make her his pawn that she turned into independence and expression. She has so much love and passion for her performances. And Jon can’t help but wish that some of that could be for him, not for a bunch of ignorant voyeurs.

It’s not that he doubts her love for him, of course. Gods, what they have is exquisite. Despite the artistry Sansa devotes to her work, it’s still artifice, still a show. But with him, she’s given her true self, and all the courage required for it. She gives him something that she’s given no one.

She’d never seek out Baelish to bring him to justice with anyone else. Only Jon. She’d never whisper her greatest fears, the reasons she’s so afraid to do so, to anyone but him. She’d never throw herself into an embrace so fearlessly and joyfully for anyone but him. And the way she knows him so well. Sometimes, it’s like she can read his mind. Sansa fears connecting with anyone, after everything that has happened. Men especially. She would fear knowing someone so well, getting attached enough to learn so much. But she puts that fear aside to know him.

Still, though…

Jon watches as the patrons settle themselves in, perusing the leather-bound menus and uttering hushed orders to white-vested waiters. The time is nearing. Laden plates and full glasses start coming out. Jon observes with some interest as waiters mount stepladders and start dimming the candles and lamps. This place really is top-rate. Meanwhile, lights go up on the closed plum curtain. As the lights dim, so does the chatter. The band strikes up a rendition of… something. Jon doesn’t recognize it. Something new? When had the girls composed a new song?

It’s very grand, though, almost like one of those operas Mrs. Stark used to drag them to.

Sansa deserves it.

Finally, the curtains part, and the audience gives an initial pause. The stage is made up to look like a lady’s boudoir, but it’s not the usual set they use. That one is all red velvet-esque, with an oriental dress screen. But this… This is all powder blue, dove-grey and white. There is a dressing table, and a couple of comfortable-looking arm chairs. There’s a dress screen, but, like the background and the coverings on the prop furniture it resembles…

…Winterfell. It looks like one of the grand family chambers at Winterfell.

They’d really brought out all the stops for the San Francisco Stage Port.

The first glimpse they get of the star are her fingertips, appearing around the edge of the white dress screen. She utters a high note. “Ooooh….”

She turns the corner and reveals herself. “I’m not a girl to stay put/Some say I’ve lost my home/I said the same myself/But then I didn’t know.”

The costume isn’t entirely new, just reworked. It’s a satin bustle gown of satin that used to be red, but had been dyed blue. It’s a high-formal number that she usually dons at the end of her “getting ready for the ball” number, with a wide neckline and short sleeves. She’s got long, white satin gloves and a matching wrap about her shoulders. Her hair is piled high atop her head, woven with white roses. She looks like an angel.

“When I set out on my own/I swear I never knew/that home could be a someone….” She trails off and turns. The music stills. Jon watches, amazed and a little nervous. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think she was facing towards him.

“And that someone—” She points, towards him, but not at him, surely, “Is—” Why was there a light glaring down on him all of a sudden? “You!”

The band kicks up again, but while their tempo is suddenly rambunctious, their volume is low enough for Sansa to cry out over them.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, forgive me, but this is a very special night, you see!” A spotlight follows her as she moves to the far end of the stage and start descending the staircase there. She comes towards him. She takes his hand, then clutches his cheek, whispers ‘Happy Birthday’, then starts dragging him up on stage.

Jon suddenly finds himself in front of what seem like an infinite number of very elegant people who had not asked him to be there.

“My friends,” Sansa announces, beaming, “I’d like you all to meet someone very, very special, my wonderful husband, Captain Jon Stark Targaryen!”

Jon looks at her, suddenly feeling a bit dazed. Husband? They aren’t married. Not that he’s opposed to the arrangement. It’s just that her constant deflections whenever he proposed such a thing had given him the impression that she was.

There is some muffled confusion, but the audience does cheer, especially the ladies. Jon takes an awkward bow.

“You’ll have to forgive my old ball and chain. He’s not used to the spotlight.” The first big laugh of the night.

“And forgive me for hiding him away from the world like I have. But be honest, ladies,” she says with an arched brow and a display gesture, “If this was your man, wouldn’t you want to keep him all to yourself?”

There are cheers of approval, the sort one would never, ever expect from respectable, high-society wives.

“But I had to bring him onstage, as I wanted to give him a very special present on his birthday. His first since we got married. You see, Jon and I have known each other our whole lives. We grew up together. But, misfortune befell my family, we lost everything, including the house I was born and raised in, and our lives pulled us apart for many, many years.”

Jon looks at Sansa curiously. This is all true.

“As a performer, my work requires me to wander, never settle down. I was fine with that, because after losing everything, I figured I’d never have a home again, so I might as well not even try. But, against all odds, one day this rugged, kind-eyed, callous-handed bounty hunter walked back into my life and not only did I find him again, but I found home again, too. Our work keeps us on the road, always, but home isn’t a place. It’s a way of life. It’s love, safety, and happiness. So while I’ll probably never see my mother’s garden or my father’s study again, I’m home, riding through the American West, traveling from place to place with my wonderful, darling Jon.”

She turns to him and cups his cheek. She kisses him, and the audience applauds. Jon’s heart beats a million times a second. He tries to blink back tears as he embraces his… well, his bride, he supposes. They’ll have to get in and out of the church discreetly, perhaps, but they’ll manage.

When she pulls back, he thinks that’s the end of it. But the music gets louder and faster, Sansa grabs his arms and smirks. First at him, then at the audience.

She starts pushing him upstage. Jon finds himself falling backward into an armchair. Sansa dances about the chair, getting behind him and massaging his shoulders.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m afraid that with the show, I haven’t had time to give my man a proper celebration. We’re busy folk, see. Me drawing in the respectable, him rustling up the guilty. And sometimes, well, I feel my man gets a little cheated. You all get to see me in all my under-Sunday Best, but when the curtain closes and we come together for married life, well, let’s just say in private, I go more for comfort than glamor. But for his birthday, I’d like to delight my man in all my glory. At my most beautiful. Now, don’t get too shocked,” she assures them all, including him, “I’m not about to give the sheriff a reason to come calling, or scandalize any of you good people… too much… Even for a showgirl like me, there are some aspects of private life and duty that stays private. Most of my wifely duties stay behind the curtain. But I’m sure family folk like yourselves won’t begrudge us a little preamble. Indeed, I’d say that after my darling here, this show tonight is for the ladies in the audience.” She winks. “Give you some ideas to try out yourselves. Show those husbands of yours you at your most beautiful— even if they don’t deserve it, they’ll make themselves worthy.”

She spins around the chair again and plops into his lap. He swallows.

“You don’t mind, do you, Handsome?”

He breathes. Sansa looms over him, practically glowing. The lights are really bright and the audience is so dark and seems so far away. Like they’re not even there. But they are there. The men in the audience… There’s a real boundary now. They’re fading away beyond the glow, beyond her. They know. She’s just a performer on a stage, not to be had. Not even performing for them so much as performing for their wives and… for him. Because he’s her Fella, her one and only. The only one she’ll have. No one touches her. No one but him.

That fleeting tremor of pride hits him, but this time, it’s not fleeting. It burns within him. He grins. All this. She’s done all this for him. Claimed him before her greatest audience ever.

Every yearning he’s harbored in secret, she’s satisfying all at once without him saying a word. She just knew. She always knows.

Still… There is… One concern. He clasps the sides of her waist and pulls her back towards him. She squeals. The audience laughs.

Jon whispers.

“Darling, if you’re really going to do what I think you’re going to do, erm, I fear that I might end up… overcome in a way not fit for public viewing.”

“I’ve thought of that,” she whispers, “And don’t worry, I’ll pace it out a bit. You’ll only be on until intermission. And all you have to do is sit and enjoy the show.”

“Erm, okay.”

She pulls herself up again and grins at the audience. “And to think, all of you fine folks in the front row thought you got the best seat in the house!”

More laughter. Sansa rises from his lap and strides forward. She undoes her little wrap and tosses backwards. It lands right in his lap.

“Now, I think I was in the middle of a song?”

The music changes again, reverting back to that gentle melody from the beginning.

“I’ve grown too big for Papa’s arms/But I’m just right for yours…”

Sansa turns, still facing the audience, but still looking at him, and she sings like one of those ‘divas’ from the operas Mrs. Stark used to drag them to. Except Jon isn’t bored. He’s drawn in, because she’s singing to him, for him. Her song about finding home with him.

“I hear the laughter of those we lost/And they don’t seem so lost anymore…”

And gods…. It’s so beautiful, because she sings in a way that Jon suspects she’s always wanted to. She sings with her heart as much as with her lungs. Singing words just for him, to a melody just for him. Dressed as she is, singing as she is, she seems like the lady her mother always wanted her to be. Despite the fact that this whole number is orchestrated by her, Jon somehow feels like he’s given her something. But how? How could he of all people inspire something like this?

When she finishes, he’s crying. He’s never felt so cherished. So lucky. So blessed. There’s loud applause. Sansa pulls a handkerchief from her skirts and buries her face in it for a while. But, eventually, she looks up again, straight out at the crowd. Jon can tell by their reactions that she’s wearing a smirk and a mischievous raised eyebrow.

“And now, what you’ve been waiting for!” The music rises again into a walloping dance beat. Lots of horns. Sansa begins to shake. She leans forward so that her respectable-looking ball gown suddenly seems a bit more scandalous, and slowly begins pulling off her right glove.

“I get lots of boys and men/all with the same question/They see the silk and hear me sing/and think I’ll want a ring/You all may wonder/With how I wander/And how I cut them loose/Just what made me choose?/Just what made me pick this man?/Well I’ll tell you if I can…”

She’s free of the glove and turns to shimmy towards him. Their eyes meet. She sweeps over him, leaning over his shoulder and stroking his cheek. “He’s got a smile/ that makes the sun look dim/Just how good he looks/when he goes for a swim/..”

She removes the other glove and runs it along his face before dropping it. This song is ridiculous and adorable and absolutely ridiculous, but true. She belts out a line about him always lending a helping hand as she places the end of one of her gown laces between his fingers, then does a little rhythmic march forward. As designed, that one lace being tugged is enough to make it all come loose. The bodice begins to drop down her torso, and she pretends to be shocked for half a second before grinning again and slowly letting it fall around her hips.

Sansa backs up and tugs at the sash under her bustle. The waist of her dress comes loose and her skirts pool at her feet. She bends over, and Jon finds that her glorious backside, bedecked with beaded fringe, is inches from his face. Then it’s in his lap and his face is pushed between her breasts as she finishes the last few lines. It’s only once the last note is done that she pulls him up for air again and kisses him deep.

They’re gasping by the time they’re done. Sansa fans herself.

Jon is hard as the Rocky Mountains. She leans over and whispers in his ear. “I sort of lied when I said you just had to sit.”

“Mmmm…” He says, not entirely recovered. He tries to focus. “What?”

“When the song finishes, I need you to get up, throw me over your shoulder, and carry me backstage. Can you do that?”

“I was probably going to do that anyways.”

She slinks off his lap and sings a coy song about constructing a humble homestead with her pioneer man that is, in fact, not at all about constructing a humble homestead with a pioneer man, no matter how much she goes on about hammering and driving nails into wood or how excited she is to open her gates to him when he returns every evening. She mimes some of her ‘homemaking’, as it were. She ends on a big highnote, which Jon takes as his cue. Not at all faking the desperate passion he displays, he grabs her and tosses her over his shoulder. She squeals and the curtains close.

Myranda and Mya hurry out of the wings, but Jon sends them backing away with a look.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

Sansa blows the audience a few kisses as the curtains close and laughs. “Okay, Jon, you can put me down now!”

“I could, but I’d rather not,” he says, a rough undercurrent to his tone as he continues to carry her down the right wings. Sansa feels a fluttering in her stomach and catches Mya’s eye. She grins.

She’d been so nervous about this. Most of her told her that her instincts were right. But her self-doubt was always present. Maybe he’d hate it, be humiliated, refuse. He’s not a showman. But she’s watched him as she’s performed. She’s observed the way he scowls whenever she admonishes him to restrain himself in public, how jealous he gets, how sullen he sometimes is. The longing in his eyes during the shows.

Thank gods she was right. She can tell by the way he’s discreetly stroking her inner thigh as he marches her backstage towards her dressing room. Thank gods the Stage Port provided a chaise. It would be a long intermission. A long, glorious intermission.

Her heart skips a beat when he kicks the door closed behind them so it really slams. Slams in a way that tells everyone within a hundred yards that that door would stay slammed until he opened it again.

She’s so wet she fears her bloomers might stain permanently. It was so hard to focus onstage, especially when she sat in his lap and felt just how overcome he really was.

Sansa squirms over his shoulder, hoping, praying that he’ll—-

—Yes! He flips her over and throws her down onto the chaise like she’s nothing, looming over her with heated eyes. Sansa arches her back, hands above her head. She’s so happy she chose to wear tear-away underthings. She suspected that it might be necessary.

But Jon doesn’t take advantage of it at once. Oh no, his fingers slip down between her legs and he strokes her through the satin. Sansa thrusts against his hand, on fire. She tugs at the stupid tuxedo jacket that the venue’s dress code demanded of anyone not specifically paid to dance in impractical underthings, desperate to feel his rippling muscles and sweat-slicked skin against her bare fingertips.

She gets his shirt off, but he still strokes her through the satin. So good, but so cruel. Not enough, not enough!

“Please, Jon. The costume is tear-away!” She whispers.

He pulls away from her, eyes like hot coals, and sits up. She whimpers from the lack of contact until he grabs her by her waist with both hands and sets her on her feet in front of him.

“Is that so?” He says gruffly. “You really had every bit of this planned. So what you’re saying is, I just need to pull this and—”

He tugs, and the top part of her corset falls open so more of her cleavage spills out. She gives a mock-squeal and pretends to cover the space between her breasts. Jon grins and tugs at another lace. The corset falls open further. Sansa keeps pretending (poorly, she’s grinning), to be scandalized when Jon reaches for the two unjoined edges at the center of her garment and yanks them apart. The whole thing falls away. Sansa catches her breasts just in time, flexed fingers over each nipple.

“And these?” He asks, reaching each hand towards a lace on either side of her bloomers. They come apart and the front flops down, exposing her soaking sex. She gives another squeal and reaches to cover herself. Jon takes her fingertips in his mouth and sucks on them, gazing up at her as he releases them and moves his mouth to her cunny.

She comes apart in his mouth in no time at all, flying high. The sound of him undoing his belt brings her back. Seconds later, he’s thrusting her onto her back again, then thrusting into her. Sansa moans, nearly howls. When they’re done, she’ll probably be mortified by what the staff may have heard, but not now. She wants them to hear!

He pushes into her hard and fast, then grabs her again. Jon gets to his feet, then bends her over the back of the chaise, taking her from behind. He gives her backside a good smack.

“That’s for taking me at unawares,” he moans, then bends over to kiss her cheek tenderly. “That’s for making me your husband.”

Sansa luxuriates in the kisses he lavishes on her cheek, ears, and neck. She reaches a second peak and when she does, Jon starts going faster. He grips her breasts so, so hard as he slows his pace but increases his force, spilling within her with a strangled cry and faltering juts of his hip.

Jon practically crumbles away from her, and Sansa spills back onto the seat, gasping and smiling. She reaches over the edge of the seat and tugs him towards her. He climbs up on top of her and they embrace.

After a while, though, they start to remember where they are and what’s going on. Jon reluctantly peels himself off of her and starts tugging his tuxedo back on. Sansa remains on her back, watching him.

“The show must go on,” she murmurs tragically.

“If you like, I’ll carry you off the stage for the finale as well,” he offers.

She suddenly feels the drive to get up again, and winks. “I’ll see you when the curtain goes up.”

He kisses her again, then shuffles out.

Feeling rather brazen, Sansa remains as she is as Mya and Myranda shuffle in. Myranda lets out a whistle.

“There should be a real spring in your step for Act II, I think.”


End file.
